Chapter 360

Jiang Mingyu, braving the heavy rain to enter the city, saw a horrifying sight.

Jiangzhou’s terrain is low-lying; though the Dahe River had long been blocked, the floodwaters within the city had not receded. Floating on the murky surface were countless corpses—men and women, old and young. These bodies resembled bloated buns, their skin pale and wrinkled, grotesque and terrifying. A boy of about ten floated nearby, his eyes wide open, as if in his final moment he had desperately tried to grasp something to save himself; a middle-aged woman clutched a still nursing infant in her arms, the three bodies piled together in a protective maternal pose that filled observers with sorrow. This scene stirred deep pity in all who saw it.

Beside many of the corpses knelt numerous drenched civilians—some old, some young—weeping uncontrollably, wailing in unbearable grief, their cries rising and falling in a chorus of despair. An elderly man, around fifty or sixty, knelt beside a young man’s corpse, his temples streaked with gray, his gaze vacant, clutching the youth’s sleeve as he sobbed uncontrollably, muttering again and again: “My son, my son...” A young woman, about thirty, knelt beside a female corpse, her face streaked with tears, alternately shaking the body violently and screaming hysterically, her expression filled with anguish and terror. Others were much the same, overwhelmed with grief.

Jiang Mingyu’s party slowly waded through the floodwaters, approaching the civilians. The people, who had originally stared in fear at the distant advance of the Dajiang troops, now suddenly saw Jiang Mingyu in full armor—their eyes flickered with complex emotions, a mixture of fear and hope.

Ever since the torrential rain began, the people of Jiangzhou had hidden in their homes, waiting for the storm to end. But last night, the Dahe River outside the city suddenly breached, and the churning floodwaters instantly submerged surrounding villages, claiming countless lives. When the survivors finally emerged after the waters receded slightly to search for loved ones, they found the surface choked with swollen, distorted corpses. A middle-aged man paced anxiously at his doorway, glancing around wildly, then crying out to the heavens in agony; an old woman lay on her bed, barely breathing, her son kneeling beside her, gripping her hand as he wept, both mother and son’s eyes filled with terror and despair. Faced with this sudden catastrophe, the Jiangzhou garrison commander Ke Bin had done nothing but flee with his troops. Just as the people were on the brink of despair, the floodwaters miraculously receded before the Dajiang army arrived—they realized Jiang Mingyu must have personally led men to block the upstream breach.

Thinking of this, and recalling the young Dajiang emperor’s reputation for caring for his people like a father, the civilians could not help but feel gratitude. They remembered that Ke Bin, as Governor of the Southern Frontier, was meant to protect their lives, and that the court should have come to their aid. But now he had fled in disgrace, and the court was nowhere to be seen. In contrast, Jiang Mingyu had come all this way personally to rescue them—now the people firmly believed the rumors of his benevolence were true.

Thus, the vast majority of survivors knelt en masse before Jiang Mingyu’s horse, crying out: “We welcome Your Majesty into the city!” A man of about fifty was the first to kneel, his body filthy with mud, yet he bowed without hesitation; an elderly man wept as he knelt, bowing repeatedly in thanks; more and more followed suit, their kneeling sending mud and water splashing everywhere. Jiang Mingyu looked at these grief-stricken people and felt a pang in his chest; his expression grew solemn. These civilians had never seen Jiang Mingyu before, but they recognized the famed banner of the Wang family. Jiang Mingyu and his men had never imagined that the disaster relief, which they had expected to explain and negotiate, would now be accepted so effortlessly.

Tukesiluo, seeing this, hurriedly whispered to Jiang Mingyu, his brow furrowed, his face brimming with confusion.

“Brother, what’s going on?”

Li Goudan and the others said nothing, but their wide eyes and open mouths revealed the same bewilderment.

Jiang Mingyu, ever perceptive, instantly understood the situation. He ignored Tukesiluo, wiped the rain from his face, and smiled warmly at the crowd.

“People of Jiangzhou, I am Emperor Jiang Mingyu of Dajiang. I have seen your suffering.”

The kneeling civilians lifted their heads in unison, their eyes filled with astonishment.

“Ke Bin’s wickedness angered Heaven first, then he abandoned you, ignoring your lives—his crimes are grave, beyond pardon.” Jiang Mingyu declared calmly; the people nodded in agreement.

“I have long known of his tyranny, which is why I led my troops here to rescue you from this flood and fire.” Jiang Mingyu spoke gently. A warmth surged through the people’s hearts; they turned to him with grateful gazes.

As the people rose, they felt dazed. No one had expected this emperor, so powerful and high-ranking, to be so humble and courteous. Compared to the usual tyrannical Jia Governor, who scowled and threw people into prison at the slightest provocation, the difference was not slight—it was immense. At this moment, they had almost forgotten the grief of losing loved ones to the flood; instead, they quietly rejoiced at having surrendered to Jiang Mingyu.

Jiang Mingyu sensed the shift in their eyes, and softened his tone further: “My dear elders, from today, you are subjects of Dajiang.” The people’s eyes welled with tears; they nodded, deeply moved.

“Goudan, gather men to recover the corpses and bury the dead with dignity. Feng Xi, take command of the city’s defenses.” Jiang Mingyu gave decisive orders. Both men immediately moved to carry them out.

“He Jing, open the city’s granaries immediately and distribute the most urgent military rations and clothing to the disaster victims—hurry.” He Jing nodded and hurried off to fulfill the emperor’s command.

Seeing Jiang Mingyu’s actions, the newly risen civilians knelt again in unison, weeping and kowtowing in thanks, their hearts overflowing with gratitude and relief.

As everyone grew busy, Jiang Mingyu walked toward the yamen, speaking to Tukesiluo as he went.

“Immediately draw a portrait of Liu Yifei and post it throughout the city. Ask every civilian if anyone has seen her?”

Jiang Mingyu’s brow was furrowed, his voice laced with anxiety and caution.

“If there is the slightest clue, I must know immediately—move fast.”

Tukesiluo hurriedly responded, nodded solemnly, and rushed off to act.

Soon, posters bearing Liu Yifei’s likeness were plastered across every street and alley of Jiangzhou. Tukesiluo was still running about, while He Jing, his face grim, arrived first with news.

“Your Majesty, there’s trouble.” He Jing’s expression was troubled, his voice low.

Trouble? Jiang Mingyu, anxiously awaiting news of Liu Yifei, felt his heart tighten. “What? What trouble?”

He Jing sighed heavily, explaining plainly: “The military grain stores have all been soaked by floodwater—completely inedible. The rain hasn’t stopped; drying the grain is impossible in the short term. There are at least two or three hundred thousand disaster victims in the city, and our grain supply won’t last more than a few days.”

Jiang Mingyu’s face darkened; beads of sweat formed on his furrowed brow. He paced anxiously, fists clenching and unclenching, clenching and unclenching—as if trying to grasp something that slipped always from his fingers.

He Jing stood beside him, his heart heavy at the sight of his sovereign’s distress. He sighed deeply: “Your Majesty, this flood came too suddenly and violently—the flood defenses were useless. The water surged directly into the grain depots. I sent men to inspect—the warehouses are filled with moldy, waterlogged grain. It’s all ruined.”

Jiang Mingyu felt the world spin; his mind went blank. He staggered back two steps and collapsed onto the dragon throne, clutching his head, whispering in despair: “It’s over. What do I do? If I can’t deliver grain by dusk, I’ll be a king who breaks his word. But the grain is destroyed—my army will starve too... What do I do now...?”

As he writhed in torment, He Jing spoke again, his voice even more strained: “Your Majesty, it’s worse than that. There are at least two or three hundred thousand victims. If we use all our grain to save them, the army will starve too... What can we do?”

“What? Two or three hundred thousand victims?” Jiang Mingyu leapt to his feet, gripping He Jing’s arm tightly, his voice frantic: “Two or three hundred thousand? I can’t possibly save them all—but I can’t let them die... What do I do?!”

He Jing shut his eyes in anguish, at a loss. The scale of the disaster exceeded anything they had imagined. Both men stood frozen in panic, speechless.

After a long silence, Jiang Mingyu sighed deeply, loosening his grip on He Jing’s arm. His facial muscles twitched as he forced calm: “Where are the disaster victims housed? What’s the condition of the granaries?”

He Jing snapped back to attention, speaking seriously: “Several public squares have been converted into temporary shelters, housing over a hundred thousand victims. But food supplies are critically short—the people are crying out... Aside from the military granary, several civilian granaries have also been damaged or flooded.”

Jiang Mingyu nodded as He Jing spoke, but his brow tightened further. He had never felt such a headache—he wished he could vanish into the ground. The military grain was destroyed, yet the people needed massive aid—this was an impossible dilemma.

He looked at He Jing with a complex expression and asked grimly: “How long can we hold out? How long will our remaining grain last the victims?”

He Jing whispered: “At current numbers, no more than three days.”

“Three days...” Jiang Mingyu repeated softly, feeling the sky was about to collapse. In three days, how could he procure enough grain? It was impossible! If he gave the grain to the people, his army would mutiny... Jiang Mingyu felt himself trapped in an unprecedented abyss of choice.

“Where’s Feng Xi?” Jiang Mingyu demanded impatiently. “He’s been transporting grain for days—he should’ve returned to Jiangzhou by now!”

He paced back and forth, his footsteps echoing through the empty Inspector’s mansion. His brow was knotted, his eyes filled with anxiety and hope—as if clutching the last straw of salvation.

He Jing watched his sovereign’s distress and sighed deeply: “Your Majesty, under normal circumstances, Commander Feng should have returned by now. But these past days of torrential rain have turned the roads to mud—wagons can barely move. And the grain carts are especially vulnerable to rain... It’s unlikely he can arrive on schedule.”

“What?” Jiang Mingyu stopped dead, staring at He Jing in disbelief. “How could it be delayed? How many days can rain delay them? The grain must not get wet—this...”

He could no longer stand. He collapsed onto the dragon throne, clutching his hair.

“What do I do...” he muttered, voice thick with despair. “The disaster is so severe, most of the grain is destroyed, Feng Xi’s convoy is my last hope... If he’s delayed, what then? I can’t feed the people, I can’t stop the army from mutiny...”

He Jing watched his sovereign’s extreme distress and felt his own heart ache. But the reality before them was unyielding—he could do nothing.

“Your Majesty...” He Jing tried to comfort, but found no words.

Just as both men sank into despair, Jiang Mingyu suddenly stood up, pacing as he shouted:

“One step at a time—maybe Feng Xi arrives tomorrow! Send fast riders to urge him—make him find any way to speed up the grain transport! No delays!”

He Jing shook his head slightly—he knew the emperor was only comforting himself—but still replied: “Yes, Your Majesty. I’ll send them at once.”

Watching He Jing’s retreating back, Jiang Mingyu exhaled slowly, his face a tangled mix of complexity and anxiety.

“Feng Xi... you must hurry back...” he whispered to the empty palace. Jiang Mingyu paced frantically, his right fist clenching and unclenching, knuckles whitening from the strain.

After a long while, he stopped, slammed his fist hard against the wall, and muttered a curse: “Damn it, what’s so great about being emperor? It’s just suffering!”

Jiang Mingyu gave a bitter, self-mocking laugh, slid slowly down the wall, and sat on the floor—suddenly looking fragile. Long moments passed. He raised his head, staring at his reflection on the wall, eyes filled with exhaustion and despair.

His mind was a chaos of worry, guilt, and regret—each emotion tangled, suffocating him. Liu Yifei was missing, the victims needed aid—problems piled on him, leaving him unable to think.

“Damn it!” He suddenly stopped pacing, slammed his fist hard against the wall. His knuckles swelled, turning red and bruised—he didn’t notice. He bit his lip until it bled, eyes bloodshot.

“Liu Yifei, where the hell are you?! And this damned natural disaster—I’ve had enough!” he muttered hoarsely. He began pacing again, clutching his hair as if he might collapse any second.

Suddenly, cheers erupted from outside the window. Jiang Mingyu froze, peering out to see the victims dancing with joy.

“Long live! Long live! Emperor Jiang Mingyu is long live! Thank you, Your Majesty, for the food—we’ve finally had a full meal!”

The victims, who had struggled for days in filthy water, now celebrated their salvation, raising cups in praise of him, voices thick with gratitude and reverence.

Jiang Mingyu felt his heart tear apart. He leaned against the windowsill, hands pressed to his forehead, whispering bitterly:

“But what will I give them tomorrow when they beg for food again? And where is Liu Yifei—I have no idea...”

Jiang Mingyu closed his eyes in pain, letting guilt and helplessness swallow him whole.

When Tukesiluo strode into the Inspector’s mansion, Jiang Mingyu was pacing frantically, face etched with anxiety and worry. Hearing the door open, he immediately stopped, rushed three steps to Tukesiluo, grabbed his shoulders tightly, and asked urgently: “Have you found any news of Liu Yifei? Where is she?”

Jiang Mingyu’s eyes were bloodshot, his face ravaged by exhaustion—he looked utterly broken. More than a day of waiting and torment had drained him; now, with Tukesiluo finally having a lead, Jiang Mingyu stood on the edge of collapse.

Tukesiluo quickly signaled him to calm down, steadying his trembling frame, and spoke gravely: “Brother, calm down. I’ve found some information about Sister-in-law.”

“What?” Jiang Mingyu’s eyes widened, bloodshot and desperate. “Tell me—where is she?”

Tukesiluo patiently recounted what he had learned; Jiang Mingyu listened, his brow tightening, his expression growing increasingly complex.

“How could this be...” he muttered after Tukesiluo finished, sinking into a chair and pressing his hands to his forehead.

“Liu Yifei was using a false name to run a business here—and I didn’t know... Why? And why did she vanish when Mu Feihang attacked? Was she captured by him?”

Jiang Mingyu spoke to himself, voice filled with guilt and dread. After a long pause, he suddenly slapped his thigh, stood up, and said to Tukesiluo with a twisted expression: “No—if she’d been captured, Mu Feihang would’ve used her to threaten me! But he hasn’t! That means she’s still safe—she’s just vanished for some reason...”

He began pacing again, faster and faster, his face growing more anxious.

“But why vanish? To escape Mu Feihang’s pursuit? But my camp is the safest place! How do I find her now?”

He asked himself, answered himself—his face twisted in pain. He suddenly stopped, slammed his fist into the wall, and whispered: “I should never have let her take risks—I’ve been terrified for her! If she’s safe this time, I’ll never let her leave my sight again!”

Tukesiluo watched him, sighing. Jiang Mingyu now looked like nothing but an overwrought husband and father.

“Brother, don’t worry—I’ve sent men to search everywhere. I’ll inform you the moment we find her.”

Jiang Mingyu nodded silently, his face filled with suppressed pain and worry. He leaned against the wall, suddenly looking ten years older, utterly drained.